


Pinesap

by zsaszspaz



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crossover, M/M, Past established Relationship, driving under the influence, it's rick and morty there's swear words being used, my friend told me this one was confusing but didn't elaborate really so uh. sorry?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:28:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22083388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zsaszspaz/pseuds/zsaszspaz
Summary: Rick tossed his head back and fixated on the door. There was a push and pull he could feel deep in his chest. On one hand, he wanted Stanley Pines to walk him so he could ask him what the fuck was going on, but on the other hand, Stan seemed…happy? In that billboard, he seemed to be doing well. Sure, his outfit looked like cheesy shit, but Stan always loved cheesy shit. He was probably thriving. But oh, that salt and pepper hair did look damn good on him. He'd gone silver fox at some point, and Rick had missed it. A wave of cold went through him at the realisation.He'd missed it.Stan was growing old without him.
Relationships: Stanley "Stanford" Pines/Rick Sanchez
Comments: 13
Kudos: 73





	Pinesap

**Author's Note:**

> no beta reader for this so i apologise for tense changes and spelling/grammatical mistakes 😗✌️

"Fuck. No fucking way," Rick rambled, white knuckling the steering wheel until his hand cramped. That earned itself a 'fuck' as well.

Rick hit the next turn hard, maybe too hard, as his brain seemed to slosh around in his skull. He was more than a little drunk, but he'd become mostly desensitised to it at this point. Alcohol was a coping mechanism, plain and simple. Too bad it wasn't helping him cope right this second. He was too on edge, and it was probably making things worse. After all the…thing he saw. That was just the work of a pickled brain from too much vodka.

That sign. He was hallucinating, right? There was always a solid chance he was high as a kite, and it was all a dream. A weird, nightmare fused wet dream. Except it wasn't too wet.

 _Yet?_ a little voice made itself heard, and Rick squashed it with his metaphorical heel. It was nothing. He was seeing things, he just went through some bad shit right now and his brain was trying to make things better. Right? Right.

The trees swayed around him and he saw something through the branches. Rick's dark eyes darting up the road at an incoming billboard. He stiffened, once again digging his hand into the defenceless leather.

'Oregon Lottery!' it read in boldface letters with a red, cross fingered symbol on it. Rick sagged in relief, his chin dropping to his chest. "Come on, Sanchez, get it together," he snapped at himself, reminding himself that the road existed, and he happened to be on it. "The reader won't like it if you die," he grumbled under his breath.

His car's brakes squealed as he tried to not take the next turn at breakneck speed. "Get to Portland, Rick. C'mon." He didn't need to stay in some piss poor town. He needed a big city with hot chicks and men to distract him from his wife. Well, ex-wife now. Fuck.

"Oh, holy mother of fuck," Rick groaned as he looked up at the billboard that was coming at him. Rick hit the brakes as hard as he could and his car jerked in protest as it tried to keep going. Thankfully, nobody was behind him. He yanked the keys out of the ignition and swung the door open, leaving his beat up little Mustang in the dust as he ran up to the sign.

It had 'Mr. Mystery!' printed in red, and a man standing next to a little house that looked like the place you'd find a shrivelled up, old hermit who drank his own piss. It very clearly said 'Murder Hut' on it, but somebody had gotten blobby, black paint and wrote 'Mystery Shack' over it. 'Voted best tourist attraction on the West Coast, 1989!' Rick groaned. That was four years ago, he was really milking it.

God, that was the most Stan thing he'd ever read. Rick's grip tightened on his keys. His lips curled back, and through his lips he growled. "I need a mother fucking drink."

The whole place smelled like a dropped beer on a mangy carpet, which was basically what it was. It appeared to be a biker club, which Rick happened to almost fit that aesthetic to a tee at this point. Black, leather, a piercing or two. Just no bike. The women there all were with other men and the single men there looked like they would rather singlehandedly face down a full sized galactic militia than so much as touch another man. It looked like Rick was going to have to take the piss and be one of those guys for an hour or two if he wanted something to drink. And he really, really did.

He slapped down a twenty and the burly guy behind the counter eyed him up. "What'll it be?"

Rick fiddled with his wallet. "Whatever's cheap and strong." He got a nod, and then the man disappeared to go grab something. Rick sniffed and looked around. The guy sitting next to him looked to be made of a brick fucking wall, but when he turned to make eye contact with Rick, he had a very soft baby face. He gave Rick a gentle smile before turning back to the woman who was gripping his thigh.

Okay, so no need to fit stereotypes here.

Good.

Rick tossed his head back and fixated on the door. There was a push and pull he could feel deep in his chest. On one hand, he wanted Stanley Pines to walk him so he could ask him what the fuck was going on, but on the other hand, Stan seemed…happy? In that billboard, he seemed to be doing well. Sure, his outfit looked like cheesy shit, but Stan always loved cheesy shit. He was probably thriving. But oh, that salt and pepper hair did look damn good on him. He'd gone silver fox at some point, and Rick had missed it. A wave of cold went through him at the realisation.

He'd missed it.

Stan was growing old without him. Rick had thought… _fuck. It doesn't matter what I thought._

Stan looked so domesticated. He'd finally cut off his mullet, his hair had begun to grey, and his eyes began to form lines and wrinkles around them. His dimples had deepened, too. He was ageing without Rick. And he wore it well.

"Ahem."

Rick snapped around to see a drink in front of him. Well, really, he smelled it before he saw it. That shit was strong. "Perfect."

"Lemme know if you need a refill, m'kay?"

Rick was already taking a hefty sip and gave him a thumbs up. The bartender watched him carefully, and once Rick set down his cup, half of it was already gone. He gave an impressed grunt and was about to turn away when Rick hailed him back.

"Wait—do y-you know where, uhh…the Mystery shack is?" Rick stammered, trying to spill it before he pussied out and would have to forever be known as chickenshit.

The barkeeper raised his brow and took a step back. "That shitty ol' tourist trap? I wouldn't waste my money there, slick."

 _Slick?_ "Er…regardless, there's an old friend of mine there."

The bartender gave a haughty snort of derision. "Unless your talking about Stanford Pines, there's no one else out there."

Stanford? That oughta be the laziest pseudonym Stan's picked. But it sounded familiar. Rick drummed his fingers on the counter, and his rings clicked together as they collided.

"Stanford," he mumbled. Then it clicked. "…Wait…shit."

That was Stanley's twin brother's name. Fuck.

Well, the guy on the billboard didn't look like Nerdy von Dweeby himself, but people change, and you can't judge a book by it's cover. Maybe Stan had taken his name for his own stupid reason.

What's the worst could happen? Some guy he doesn't know opens the door, and Rick has to leave? Big whoop. It was a chance he was willing to take.

"Yeah, that's him."

"It's cold as balls out here," Rick grunted as he tried to shrink into his sweater.

The parking wasn't too far from the entrance, but it was enough to make him deal with the biting cold in the air. His hair whipped in his face, and he growled obscenities under his breath.

"This better be Stan _ley_ or I swear to fuck..."

He stomped up the stairs and crammed himself into the nook of walls, grateful for the shelter. He balled up his fist and pounded the door. There was a beat of silence, just enough for a worm of anxiety slug itself into his guts.

How many years had it been? Eleven? How was going to explain himself if it was Stan? Hell, how was he going to explain if it wasn't? They had only been together five years. They had been apart over double the amount of time they had been together. What if Stan had moved on? Found himself a floozy that would actually treat him right?

Then, a voice distracted the little shit of a worm from it's incessant gnawing.

"No refunds, I gotta business to run."

That's Stan. That has to be Stanley fucking Pines. That voice was product of years of screaming like an idiot and smoking like no tomorrow.

Stanford, the real one, was a goody goody, if anything Stan said was true. That couldn't be a real Ford.

"I'm not here for a refund, asshole, open the fucking door or I'm blasting it."

He was greeted with silence once again. This time, it lasted far longer.

Hello, anxiety worm. Welcome back.

Thoughts whirred in his head again, louder than before, and he almost missed the broken little, "No fucking way," and the thud of footsteps. Rick stuck his nose in the air, and the door swung open.

There was Stan, in all his glory. Scruffy, exhausted, and a little greasy. He was in an old undershirt, beat-up maroon dress pants, and had the most ridiculous looking fez sat upon his head. His eyes were saucers and he wore an expression the Rick couldn't help but describe as a lovesick, confused, puppy dog.

Rick realised he, himself, had his jaw slack and had huge moony eyes himself and he snapped up. He forgot how tall he was compared to Stan. And thin.

He liked it. He missed it.

Rick carefully reached a hand out to touch him, and to his bitter dismay, Stan stopped him by closing his fist around Rick's forearm. "No."

Rick pulled away, with more of a struggle than he cared for. "What do you mean _no?_ Excuse me if I haven't seen you in over a decade and I want to touch you."

Stan pointed at him with an accusatory finger. "You don't get to just give up on me and then come waltzin' back into my life. That ain't how this works."

Rick felt himself tense. "Give up? When did I fucking...I thought you were dead. Your tracker wasn't giving a single signal and so I kept an eye out, and bam! There you were! _In the obituary section."_

Stan winced, and he floundered for a moment, looking for a response. "You always found me before."

"Yeah, dumbfuck. Through the tracker. So don't go accusing me of shit," Rick spat.

Stan's eyes softened again into lovesick puppy, only now instead of confusion, sadness.

"This was my fault?"

Rick shoved his hands into his pocket and looked away. He couldn't stand to look at those watery eyes and that pout. "No, I mean...fuck, maybe...it could've been my tracker."

Rick could hardly believe himself. He was apologising? Only Stan. No one else in the entire multiverse could get him to do that.

Rick looked down at his feet a dug the heel of his boot into the ground. "So, can I touch you now or are you gonna give me some bullshi—"

And then Stanley grabbed him and pulled him into a bear hug. It was tight, and it made Rick's elbows dig into his own ribs, but it was Stan. His Stan.

Rick awkwardly moved his armed and wrapped them around Stan, his sharp nose landing in his hair. He smelled of whatever cheap shampoo he always used, and pine.

Sappy old Pines smelled like pinesap? Oh, life, real good one there. Nice and creative.

Stan mumbled something incoherent into his chest, and Rick savoured the rumble he could feel.

Stan stuck his head out. Shit, had he started crying? Had Rick?

Then it didn't matter because Stan was yanking him down and kissing him, and it was even better than he remembered. It was perfect. Stan haphazardly dragged him inside, and Rick fumbled to shut the door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> hm wonder what they did in the shack afterwards 🤔🤔…well it's completely up to interpretation i suppose ;]


End file.
